


Skeletal

by Abreannero



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anorexia, Bulimia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abreannero/pseuds/Abreannero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anorexia was an unfamiliar nemesis to Tavros, but a dear, debilitating friend to Dave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skeletal

How could he tell him that the charcoal nights and the equally dim mornings were fading into dust with each empty smile? How could he say that the sallow cheeks and protruding ribs screamed of skeletons, but help could not be given if there were no hands to receive it, no mouths open and ready to gobble down the assistance and nourish the body and soul?

So what if he was starving? How could one person change an empty belly? How could one person pound sense and food into an exhausted shell and say 'here, eat' and expect the outcome to be positive?

These never-ending pools of questions, outlined by bones and soft cries at night, memories of happier days intertwined with his face plunged into a toilet. His reflection slick with sweat and his fingers tremble but he does not stop, he must be perfect, always perfect, that is only what is accepted of a Strider. Any less will not do, not a Strider, someone imperfect, therefore disgusting, cast out, exiled, never to be heard of again.

In his twisted mind, perfection was far off, locked somewhere in the approval of his housemate who cooked and cooked and watched it pile in the refridgerator and eventually thrown out. His heart pounded when the bathroom door locked, twist, shut, click, vomit. Ignore traces of hunger and focus on achieving a flawless state, cast shaded eyes to the tears that envelope his.

Eventually, he feeds, only on long stares from cinnamon eyes and a tube strapped into his arm. Beeps sound around him but he is numb, always numb, only his hand warm and feeling from the smaller one he limply holds. The being above him speaks about the day, asks if he wants the window open. He declines, the outside world reminds him to be happy but he refuses.

When he goes home, he collapses, begs for a massage and healthier, plumper hands do just that, but without enthusiasm. They rub, knead, tickle, but he does not laugh. He cries and is held and his bony body falls asleep for hours and hours on end. He is smaller, but holds him closely and never lets go.

The sun is bright and warms what little body he has left, peeks through the curtains and scorches his toes that hang awkwardly off the couch. He is illuminated, his universe tucked away in quaint boxes and tied in bows made of steel to ensure his afternoon safety. The other sleeps still, fatigued from worry, a Taurus symbol etched onto his shirt that is soon traced by still-skinny fingers.

He reminds the other that there is still going to be time before recovery. He is impatient, taps his foot, screams, cries, throws a tantrum, why can't he be normal? Why must his body shut down on him and his mind holler that less is just too much? He answers no questions, just kisses him, tells him to eat a little more, to stop doing this to himself.

He gains two pounds in the following weeks, then another and a few more and he resembles himself. Still skinny, still wobbling like a newborn fawn, still gazing at calories with contempt shining in the glass over his eyes but he is with him every step of the way. Eat this, drink that, sleep with me, kiss me, hug me, allow me to distract you from what is wrong so you may smile just a bit.

And he does, for days on end, smiles because the other may not be a Strider, but he is proud, and that is more than enough for him.


End file.
